


Laundry Day

by RosalindsGhost



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Beer, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Lingerie, Masturbation, POV Multiple, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Smut, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 16:37:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13462212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosalindsGhost/pseuds/RosalindsGhost
Summary: Jo's run out of things to wear. Normally, that wouldn't be a problem, but a certain hunter has come to call.





	1. Chapter 1

It was Laundry Day, and Jo was horny. Not that one normally had anything to do with the other, but today, they were intrinsically linked. 

That morning, she had awoken from a vivid, heady dream involving a certain Hunter, her sheets soaked with sweat and her panties soaked with the evidence of her dream. Despite a cold shower, she had been unable to shake her arousal. Now, she was searching for something to wear, trying to ignore the swollen feeling between her legs and the shockingly detailed images that continued to flash through her thoughts. 

It was the height of summer; Jo was completely out of weather-appropriate clothes, with the exception of an old gingham sundress and a matching bra and panty set that was made of red and black lace.

She searched frantically through her drawers, hoping that there was something, _anything_ else. She came up empty. _“Nothing!”_ she hissed. She wasn’t picky – normally she would have just worn something dirty – but everything she owned was covered with mud, or blood, or a combination of both, and they were practically ready to stand up on their own. Reluctantly, she turned and regarded the clothing strewn across her bed: bra, panties, and sundress. She stood, completely naked, hands on hips, sweat already breaking out over her body in the heat. With a resigned sigh, she reached out for the panties and slid them on. They were Brazilian-style, and she suppressed a shudder as the thin fabric pressed up between her thighs. She shrugged on the bra, and groaned when she saw how it pushed her breasts up obscenely. The set had been a gift from one of her old girlfriends, and she had never worn it. She eyed the gingham dress sceptically. Jo hadn’t worn it since high school, and she’d filled out since then. She had no doubt that the dress would be downright lewd on her now.

Still, she had no choice. She shrugged it on, hoping that Ellen, her mom, wouldn’t make her do bar duty in addition to laundry today. The last thing she needed was for some randy trucker to hit on her. The heat and her discomfort had her feeling like she’d have a pretty short fuse. Jo raised her eyebrow at herself in the mirror, and then shook her head. It was going to be a bad day.

Quickly, Jo gathered the piles of laundry from the floor and deposited them in the heaping hamper. She pushed out of her room and grabbed her mom’s clothes, too. With every movement she made, Jo could feel the lace of the bra and panties rubbing against her pubic mound and nipples. If anything, being clothed was making her feel hornier than ever. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she banged out through the screen door and walked gingerly down the outside steps to the outbuilding she and her mom used as a laundry room. Jo could feel her clit becoming engorged with every step, and as she bumped open the door to the laundry room, she was suddenly overwhelmed again by the sensation of the dream she had had. Green eyes, dark with lust gazed at her as plush pink lips grazed her skin and strong arms circled her waist. She gasped, and stumbled into the gloom of the laundry room, pulled out of her fantasy by the fact that it was a good five degrees cooler inside. Goosebumps prickled over her body in the sudden cool.

_“Damn,”_ she muttered. She turned on the cold tap in the washbasin, and splashed some water on her face. Jo immediately felt a bit better, though she was still disturbed that she didn’t seem to be able to shake the dregs of her shockingly erotic dream. She mechanically began to sort the laundry, and the familiar gestures helped to calm her further. Jo dumped a load of whites into the rapidly filling washer, and took a deep breath. She’d be fine. She could do this. Sexy underwear and sex dream be damned: she could make it through the day, as long as she could stick to her routine and nothing unexpected happened.

Jo shoved the door open rather harder than she normally would, and then froze in her tracks as she glimpsed the parking lot of the bar. Parked casually, cockily, as if it owned the place, was a horribly familiar black ’67 Chevy Impala. “Joanna Beth Harvelle!” came the insistent call from inside bar, “Get your ass in here and do your job!”

_Shit._  
_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit._ Jo’s heart stuttered to a standstill as a particularly imperative throb came from between her legs.  
_Shit. FUCK._

“Joanna Beth! I said move it!” Ellen leaned out the back door. “What’s in your head, girl? Get a move on!”

_You don’t want to know, mom,_ thought Jo, finally jolted out of her frozen state by her mother’s voice. She hurried back up to the bar, stomach sinking, heart soaring. Ellen was already in the middle of another sentence by the time Jo was through the door. “…inchesters are here, and Sam needs my help getting in touch with Ash. Make yourself useful and get the boys a beer.”

Jo slid through the kitchen and into the Roadhouse through the back door. There was a figure hunched over the bar, indistinct in the gloom, yet Jo recognized him immediately. It was Dean Winchester: Hunter, self-identified man’s man, and the object of her erotic dream. She paused in the doorway, tugging self-consciously at her dress, trying to regain some of her composure. Even in the dim light of the bar, she could cast an appreciative eye over the muscled planes of his body. If he weren’t such a stubborn, emotionally constipated, self-loathing asshole, then she might have understood why she kept having sexually charged dreams about him. He was gorgeous, there was no denying it, but he was not a man to have a relationship with. Still, Jo couldn’t help being drawn to him, and it made her furious with herself.

She steeled her nerves, silently admonishing her body, which was already responding to the man before her, and stepped into the bar. Dean glanced her way, and said: “Can I get a beer, miss, uh…” he did a double take. “Uh, miss, uh… Jo. Jo. It’s, it’s you.”

Jo watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, his eyes fixed on some point south of her face. There was a pause. “Uh. Hey, Jo. Could I get a beer? Please?”

Jo was floored. She didn’t think she’d ever heard the word “please” from Dean’s mouth. Smirking slightly, she said “Hey, Dean. Sure, I can grab you one,” and she slid behind the bar and grabbed a bottle out of the small cooler. In one smooth movement born from years of practice, she popped off the bottle cap and plunked the beer down in front of Dean. The cold beverage immediately began to perspire in the heat, and Dean grasped it and took a long pull, avoiding her gaze. Her gaze fixed on his lips, pursed around the mouth of the sweating bottle of beer. She licked her own lips. “So, what’s up?” she asked, emboldened by Dean’s flustered reaction to her dress. “Why did you need to come here to contact Ash? Couldn’t Bobby just put you through?”

“He _could_ , if the witch bitch hadn’t stolen our phones.”

Jo chuckled, trying hard not to focus on Dean’s bare, chiselled arms, glistening in the heat. “Oh man, Bobby is going to be so pissed when he finds out you guys let yourselves get pickpocketed by a witch.”

Dean looked so furious that he almost spat out his beer. “Hey, she was hot! How was I supposed to know that…”

“You didn’t!” Jo gasped.

Dean flushed. “Didn’t what?”

“You didn’t sleep with her,” Jo’s heart sank, “Did you?”

“Hell, no,” scoffed Dean, “How stupid do you think I am, Jo?” 

She didn’t respond. Unwelcome images from her dream once again rose in her head; only this time, it was a curvy brunette with Dean, not her.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice dropped, and he reached out across the bar and brushed her hair away from her collarbone – Jo felt sweat break out across her body – “I didn’t do that, okay? She just got me drunk. And stole my phone. And hey, you should have seen what she did to get Sammy’s phone: spilled an entire tray of drinks on him and jacked it while she was mopping him off,” he chuckled.

Jo managed a weak laugh, relief pouring through her. She stepped back, away from Dean’s questing fingers, still discomfited. Tendrils of her hair were sticking to the sweat on her back, and impatiently, she tied her hair up in a messy ponytail. Dean’s eyes were still on her, and she flushed. She could feel him across the bar, like a physical longing, her body already bowing back towards him. “We took care of her, though, don’t you worry. We heard tell of yellow-eyes in South Dakota, that’s why we’re here for Ash.”

She shook her head and stepped back again. Trying to resist the pull of Dean’s physical presence, she came around the bar to turn on the jukebox. “Well, I guess you’ve got a bit of time to kill while Mom and Sam track down Ash – I think he went to rip off some computer lab in order to boost the signal on his demon-tracking program.”

Jo mashed a couple of buttons at random, and was appalled when she heard the opening notes of “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac. She punched the juke lightly, bracing herself for the inevitable ribbing about “chick music.” But it didn’t come. God, she needed a beer. She turned, and saw that Dean had swivelled on his barstool to face her. She went to brush past him, and as she did, he reached out his hand to grab a fistful of her skirt. His fingers brushed across her pubic bone, and she trembled, lurching to a stop. “Jo, what’s with the dress?” he growled.

She took several, deep, shuddering breaths, then reached down to disentangle his hand from her skirt. But instead of letting go, he grabbed her hand and pulled her in toward him. “Dean…” she started, stumbling into his knees.

His voice dropped still further. “Why are you wearing the dress, Jo?” 

Sitting on the bar stool, Dean was about the same height as Jo. His eyes bored into hers. He held her hand almost in his lap, and her fingers accidentally brushed against the crotch of his jeans. Dean froze, and Jo had to suppress a groan. Was she just imagining the hardness beneath the fabric? She felt herself leaning toward him. His lips were slightly parted – she wanted so badly, just once, to feel those soft, gorgeous lips on hers. 

Then her doubt got the better of her, and Jo pulled away. Dean was not the boy to take home to your mother. But there was no reason she couldn’t mess with him while she had him under the power of the sundress. “It’s laundry day,” she said, lightly, walking away from the pull of his gaze.

She turned back to Dean as she rounded the bar. He looked sceptical. “No, really! It’s hot, and I didn’t have anything else to wear in this weather. Besides, it’s great for the breeze,” she said, lifting her arms and doing a quick spin behind the bar. From the cool air she could feel on her upper thighs, she was pretty sure that Dean was getting some generous glimpses of her lacy panties. Sure enough, when she stopped spinning, Dean’s eyes were fixed below her waist. Jo imagined him vaulting across the bar to get at her, pressing her roughly against the till, sliding his fingers between her legs… Slightly out of breath, she couldn’t resist messing with him a little more. Crossing her arms beneath her breasts to push them up still further, she leaned on the bar and asked: “Why? Don’t you like it?”

“No,” said Dean, flatly.

She was taken aback. “Why not?” she asked, starting to draw away from him, but then, suddenly, his hand was around the back of her neck, his thumb brushing along her cheek bone. Goosebumps erupted across her skin. A muscle jumped in Dean’s jaw, and his eyes burned into hers, his pupils wide and dark. Suddenly, the music stopped, and his words echoed in the silence. “I don’t like it, because it makes you look like monster bait, Jo,” he said through clenched teeth.

She reeled back, wrenching her face from his grip. “You know what, Dean Winchester?” she said, her voice rising dangerously. “Fuck you, and fuck the horse you rode in on! You know well and good that I can handle myself out there against ANY kind of Hell Spawn! WHETHER OR NOT I’M WEARING A SHITTY SUNDRESS!” she screamed, inches from his face. 

She reached over the bar and viciously shoved him, causing him to overbalance and topple off the barstool. Furious, she stormed off, leaving him to pick himself up off the dusty hardwood.

Jo angrily shoved the door open and clattered out of the Roadhouse, heading blindly away from Dean’s hurtful words. She stopped short when she saw the Impala. Viciously, she kicked at its fender, leaving a small dent. Unsatisfied, and filled with the savage desire to disrespect the only thing Dean loved other than his brother, she reeled back and spat on it, spittle spraying across the windscreen. 

With a strangled scream of frustration, she turned on her heel and fled to the outbuilding, hot, angry tears swimming in her eyes. Jo slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, completely overwrought. She _hated_ men and how they treated her, _hated_ how she could be one of the guys one minute, a respected hunter, and the next minute, the second she looked the least bit feminine, she got treated like some kind of walking, unintelligent sex toy. Most of all, she _hated_ how Dean took it one step further and treated her like a goddamn _victim._

To top it all off, Jo was still aroused at the thought of Dean’s touches in the bar, and it made her furious with herself.


	2. Chapter 2

As she began to calm down in the cool of the laundry room, the rumble of the washing machine and dryer somehow soothing, she realized that she was clutching Dean’s beer bottle. Jo didn’t remember grabbing it – in her fury, she must have snatched it off the bar, intending to throw it or break it or something. Instead, she was clasping it to her chest like a lifeline. She gave the bottle and experimental shake, and it sloshed a little. _Thank god_ , she thought, and drained the last of the beer, the cool liquid sliding down her throat before she realized that her lips were around the same place that Dean’s had been only moments before. She shivered, lust running through her body like a fever. Slowly, Jo pulled the bottle away from her mouth, and gingerly placed it on a shelf over the laundry machines, setting it down as if she feared it would explode. She regarded the object levelly, filled with self-loathing. How did she let him get under her skin time and time again? It was like he lived in the cells of her flesh, and she couldn’t expel that part of her DNA.

No matter how hard she tried to deny it, Jo finally had to admit to herself that she harboured some dangerous feelings for Dean Winchester. It was not as though she feared he would never reciprocate. That was not the danger. On the contrary, despite his negative words, she was fairly certain that if she went back in to the bar and took off her dress, she could sleep with him just as soon as she liked. The problem was: she didn’t _just_ want to sleep with him.

Her first meeting with the hunter had to be the cause of this feeling. Dean had looked at her like all the other men: a small dose of surprise mixed with a large dollop of lechery. Jo had been certain that he would try to pick her up, and he had even sidled over to her while Sam and Ellen talked, but then suddenly he had changed. He had said “Wrong place, wrong time,” and left it at that. But there had been an unspoken tension in the air between them ever since, and Jo was sure that this tension existed precisely because Dean _hadn’t_ acted like all the other men. She was under no illusion that if she had been any other pretty girl, Dean would have charmed her into his bed that very night. Yet Dean hadn’t done that, so what was it about Jo that made him pause, and act like a decent man?

Defeated, Jo stumbled forward, planting her elbows on the dryer and putting her head in her hands. She had to get Dean out of her system, at least temporarily, so that she could try to gain the upper hand again. She needed to feel like she’d regained at least a little bit of her pride, power, and autonomy. 

Pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, she was overwhelmed by the expression on Dean’s face when he had said those words: _monster bait._ The muscles had been jumping in his jaw, his eyes practically black in the gloom of the Roadhouse. There had been something in his face that she couldn’t read at that moment, something that was slowly dawning on her now. Dean wasn’t trying to protect her from monsters, oh no. She had seen it there, in his eyes, the self-loathing that had simmered under the surface of every interaction he had ever had with her. She lurched up from her bent position, her eyes snapping open. Dean thought _he_ was the monster, and he didn’t want Jo to be his victim.

Her heart clenched. That stupid man. When was he ever going to see that he was good enough – more than good enough – for her? Not that she’d given him much cause to hope. There had been so many times, just like today, when she’d been alone with Dean, but unable to make that final step into his arms. She’d somehow, despite his clear respect for her growing talents at hunting, never been able to make him see that she wanted to be more than just his colleague. The very fact that he respected Jo as a woman, had grown to admire her skills, and tried his best to protect her without treating her like another casualty only made her want him more.

She tilted her head back and leaned her hips into the dryer, trying to relax her tense muscles. An unexpected shock of pleasure shot up her spine. Her pubic mound had connected with the dryer, and the vibrations sent a tremor of desire through her body. Then she had an idea. Today was not the day to try and communicate her feelings for Dean, but perhaps she could purge him from her system, at least temporarily. Seized by a sudden reckless impulse, Jo turned around and boosted herself up on to the top of the dryer. She practically purred as the vibrations shot down to the tips of her toes. Feeling utterly wanton, she slid her hands across her body. Goosebumps rose on her skin and her nipples peaked despite the heat of the dryer beneath her. Jo closed her eyes, and imagined Dean following her out of the bar, pushing through the door and cornering her in the tiny laundry room.

She pictured his expression; furious at the minor damage she had done to his precious car. In her head, his anger turned to lust: his pupils dilated and his mouth dropped open slightly as he saw her dishevelled state. Jo could practically feel Dean’s hands on her shoulders as he pushed her against the dryer and eased the straps of her dress down to expose her lace bra. She lightly pinched her own nipples as she imagined Dean’s teeth on her breasts, still savage despite the cooling of his anger.

Jo envisioned winding her hands into his short hair, digging her nails into his scalp as she hissed through the pleasure and pain wrought by his teeth. In her fantasy, Dean lifted her roughly off the ground, depositing her on top of the machine at the perfect angle force open her legs and thrust his jean-clad hips into hers. Jo moaned over the noise of the laundry machines, parting her legs and pulling her skirt up over her hips. As she pictured Dean aggressively grinding against her, she slid her fingers inside her panties, dipping into the warm wetness there. Imaginary Dean laid her back along the top of the laundry machine so that he could kiss a trail of fire down her abdomen, then pull her panties off. Jo’s fingers slid easily inside her body as she pictured Dean tasting her centre, teasing her. 

Jo’s breathing was heavy in the gloom as she explored her fantasy. Her pretend Dean hummed his pleasure against her, echoing the vibrations of the dryer. She pictured Dean thrusting his fingers inside of her while his tongue worked on her clitoris, causing her pleasure to mount dramatically. In her fantasy, she pulled Dean’s head up, kissing him hard as she unfastened his jeans and guided his (not insubstantial) cock into her. At this point, Jo was brought out of her illusions by a practical problem: her fingers simply wouldn’t do the job; she needed to be filled to be fulfilled. She opened her eyes blearily, feeling hazy with lust and hovering on the edge of completion. Her gaze landed on the beer bottle on the shelf above her. Desperate to finish, she seized it and ran it under the hot water with mild soap in the washbasin – she wasn’t so far gone that she couldn’t consider her personal health – and not even waiting for it to cool down, slid the neck between her folds. The bottle was hot, but rather than being painful, the heat was delicious, and she moaned at the sensation. She began to manipulate the neck of the bottle in and out, gasping each time the lip hit the sensitive spot within her. The idea that Dean’s lips had been around this bottle mere minutes before she appropriated it in such a dirty fashion ramped up the intense feeling of sexual transgression that Jo had, sitting atop the laundry machines and masturbating to the thought of the Hunter. She felt lusciously naughty as she closed her eyes once again and imagined Dean grunting as he thrust inside her fiercely. The Dean who existed in her head wasn’t gentle: he knew that Jo would be experienced enough to like things a little rough.

Biting her lower lip, Jo began to use her other hand to work at her clit, seeing Dean’s intense gaze as he began to bring her over the edge. Now she was making little gasping moans, so close she could practically taste Dean on her lips. “Jo,” her vision of Dean growled, “God you feel so good.”

“Dean!” Jo cried as she came, shuddering with the force of her orgasm.

She came back to herself slowly, and as she did, the realization that she had called out Dean’s name as she reached her peak sank in. Carefully removing the bottle, she set it in the washbasin and sat up. She listened carefully, but the noise of the laundry machines was loud, and she couldn’t hear anyone around the little shack. Sighing with relief, she concluded the no one could have heard her over the noise of the machines. Suddenly, the drier alarm buzzed and all motion ceased. She gave a little cry of surprise, but the cycle had simply finished, as if on cue. She slowly slid off the top of the dryer; her legs were still a bit shaky beneath her. Jo rinsed off the bottle once more, leaving it in the washbasin so that she could dispose of it later. Smiling to herself, she collected the dry laundry and pushed out the door. Maybe it was time for another cold shower.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we have Dean's point of view of this whole situation ^_^

“Creepy… Gross… Sons of bitches….” Dean was muttering furiously behind the wheel of the Impala, pushing the tired engine through the heat of the day, asphalt shimmering, windows down to let in the heavy air. He slammed his fist into the dash. “God damn I hate witches!”

Sam was in the passenger seat, tense and alert. From the way the muscles were jumping in his jaw, Dean knew his brother wasn’t much happier than he was. Dean was gripping the steering wheel tight, so pissed he wanted to stab something. He was angry at himself for letting the witch’s looks distract him enough that she was able to get the jump on him, and beneath the anger was a squirming sense of shame and apprehension. For the first time in weeks, he and Sam had seen a story in the news pointing to the work of the yellow-eyed demon, and now, thanks to Dean’s libido, they were unable to communicate with any of their sources of information.

Dean stared hard at the parched scenery flashing by, the asphalt of the old, two-lane highway appearing to puddle and melt in the heat. More than his hurt pride and frustration at being within spitting distance of their goal, Dean was furious at where they were headed. If he hadn’t lost their phones to that witch, they would never have needed to go back to the Roadhouse.

He reached out and switched on the radio, hoping to distract himself. Less than a minute later, he flicked it off again. The noise just irked him further. Sam glanced at him, concern momentarily knitting his brow, but he chose not to speak, obviously still smarting that it was Dean’s mistake that had led to their predicament. Dean ground his teeth together, trying desperately not to think about what, and who, awaited him at the Roadhouse. 

Sam and Dean had found themselves at the Harvelle’s bar a few times recently, as the Harvelle women, Jo and Ellen, and their genius friend Ash had proved to be invaluable allies in the search for their father and the yellow-eyed demon. Despite the fact of their undeniable usefulness, Dean had become more and more reluctant to return to the bar each time. Though there was plenty about the Roadhouse that was appealing. It represented a safe haven, a place where the beer flowed and Dean could relax his hackles and let his guard down. 

But then there was the fetching and feisty Jo. She was beautiful, to be sure. She was also self-assured, witty, and capable. All these reasons and more made Jo an enticing person. Yet Dean was completely terrified of her. She was so damn sexy and self-aware, and when he was around her, Dean wanted nothing more than to lay her down on one of the sticky bar tables, peel off her clothes and taste every inch of her skin. He could smell her in the air and feel her close like a static charge. She was also threatening as hell. Because she represented something very, very frightening to Dean. Because Dean wanted more from her than a quick and dirty fuck. 

To Dean, Jo represented the potential for something he could never allow himself to have. He couldn’t permit himself to corrupt her, to harm her, to poison her with his family and his name. He was desperate to protect her from himself. But every time he and his brother returned to the Roadhouse, he came a little closer to giving in to temptation. That was why he was feeling livid and frightened – he didn’t trust himself around Jo; if he let her in, he was exposing her to all of the blood and terror that came from being involved with a Winchester. Just continuing to rely on Jo, Ellen, and Ash for information and leads exposed them to risk. 

Despite all this, as he glared at the road ahead, he couldn’t help feeling a tiny, warm spark in his chest. A part of himself, a part larger than he cared to admit, longed for the potential life that Jo represented, and looked forward to seeing her again. He was excited to trade banter with her, to watch her body move beneath her clothing, to feel his heart clench and his skin enflame when she smiled at him.

His pulse sped up and he swallowed hard; as if his foot had a mind of its own, it pressed down harder on the gas, pushing the Impala faster towards his salvation and his damnation.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean's POV ;)

The Impala rolled into the dusty parking lot of the Roadhouse, rumbling to a halt. Dean turned off the engine and stared ahead at the battered bar, willing himself to let Sam go in alone. If he was strong enough, he could turn the car around, find a cheap motel, leave Sam to his work, and leave Jo to her good life. Sam pushed open his door, then paused. “Are you coming, Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied gruffly. 

Annoyed with his own weakness, he kicked the door open and followed after his brother. His hairline prickled in the heat and he peeled off his flannel shirt and threw it back through the open window of his car. Gravel crunched under his boots, then his steps echoed hollowly as he trod onto the wooden porch of the bar. He could already hear Ellen enthusiastically greeting Sam inside the bar, but he didn’t hear Jo’s voice. Perhaps she was away on a hunt. Dean experienced a strange rush of mixed disappointment and hope. Feeling trepidatious, Dean pulled the door open, plunging into the dimness of the bar.

“Hey, Dean,” Ellen beamed at him, her arm around Sam’s back. “So you let a witch get the best of you, huh?” She chuckled, and Dean felt his face grow hot.

“Yeah, well, even the best go down sometimes,” he blustered, trying to salvage his pride. 

Ellen’s chuckle turned into a full-on guffaw, and even Sam managed to crack a bit of a smile. “You sit down and have yourself a beer, Dean,” she managed to say through her laughter. “I’ll get Sam in touch with Ash. Jo’ll get one for you, on the house, if I can just figure out where in the hell that girl has gotten to.”

She breezed through the door of the kitchen, and Dean heard the screen door at the back of the bar bang open, as Ellen yelled: “Joanna Beth Harvelle! Get your ass in here and do your job!” There was a pause, then: “Joanna Beth! I said move it! What’s in your head, girl? Get a move on!”

Dean took a seat at the bar. Sam followed Ellen towards the back, eager to get in touch with Ash. He listened to their voices fade. Leaning his elbows casually on the bar, Dean realized he was far less relaxed than he looked. His blood was rushing in his ears, and his breath was short. He was about to see Jo again, and despite the fact that he had been dwelling on this meeting since he had pointed the Impala toward the Roadhouse, he was completely unprepared to see her again.

He clenched his fists on the bar, then turned abruptly as he heard a quiet step. A young woman stood partially obscured in shadows by the door, wearing a _very_ brief little sundress. Thoughtlessly, he spoke. “Can I get a beer, miss, uh…” Then he realized who he was looking at. “Uh, miss, uh… Jo. _Jo._ It’s, it’s you.”

Jo stood there, nervously fidgeting at the hem of her dress. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her look more vulnerable, or beautiful. Her skin was flushed in the hot, still air, and her timid smile pierced through him like a needle. His mouth was suddenly very dry, and he had to swallow before he could speak. “Uh. Hey, Jo. Could I get a beer?” He swallowed again. “Please?” The word tripped out of his mouth before he could stop himself. That _please_ said _set me free; let me love you; don’t come any closer; don’t let me hurt you._ In that _please_ he felt himself stumble several steps closer to losing his resolve.

Jo smirked, and his heart stuttered. “Hey, Dean. Sure, I can grab you one,” she said, sliding behind the bar to grab him a cold bottle. 

He watched her body move beneath the fabric of her dress, hot shame boiling in his belly, yet unable to look away. The dress was cut low, and he could see the swell of her breasts and a hint of black lace. He experienced a sudden wave of dizziness as the blood rapidly left his brain and traveled south. He seized the beer she placed on the bar like a man dying of thirst, and quickly downed half of the cold drink. Despite his tolerance for alcohol, he immediately felt a slight buzz. It must have been the heat. Or maybe it was Jo’s tongue tracing her lips.

“So, what’s up?” she asked, her tone teasing. “Why did you need to come here to contact Ash? Couldn’t Bobby just put you through?”

“He _could,_ if the witch bitch hadn’t stolen our phones,” said Dean, gruffly, upset to admit his failing to Jo.

Jo laughed, her voice low and sexy. Dean felt his cock stir, and closed his eyes briefly, trying to get a grip on himself. “Oh man,” said Jo, and he could hear the smile in her voice, “Bobby is going to be so pissed when he finds out you guys let yourselves get pickpocketed by a witch.”

Dean’s eyes snapped open and he zeroed his gaze on her face. He was suddenly, astonishingly pissed that Jo could make him feel so inadequate with just a few words. “Hey, she was hot! How was I supposed to know that…”

“You didn’t!” Jo gasped.

Her face was suddenly ashen, and Dean’s mercurial emotions swung around the other way. He dropped his voice, concerned. “Didn’t what?”

She was so quiet, so different from how she usually sparkled in the gloom of the bar, as she said: “You didn’t sleep with her… Did you?”

“Hell, no,” scoffed Dean, trying to reassure her. “How stupid do you think I am, Jo?” 

Jo didn’t respond, she just looked down at the bar, digging her fingernails into the grooves of the dark wood.

“Hey,” Dean said, quietly. She still wouldn’t look at him. Part of him was screaming: _Good! Let her think you slept with the witch! You can’t have her, so you have to hurt her!_ Something else in him won out, though, and as he reached out to brush a strand of hair away from her collar bone, the comforting words left his mouth even as he wished he could draw them back in like a fishing line. “I didn’t do that, okay? She just got me drunk. And stole my phone. And hey, you should have seen what she did to get Sammy’s phone: spilled an entire tray of drinks on him and jacked it while she was mopping him off.” He chuckled weakly, trying to bring that smile back to her face.

Jo laughed half-heartedly and stepped back from his fingers, sweeping her hair up into a ponytail. He quickly withdrew his hand, aware that he had just crossed a line. Her skin was flushed and her breath was short. He could practically smell her in the air. He could see the pulse in her neck, wanted to run his tongue along the vein, bruising her with his teeth so that the world would know she was his. She stepped back in towards the bar, and as if his mouth was on autopilot, he kept talking, keen to keep her physically close to him, despite the thick bar between them. “We took care of her, though, don’t you worry. We heard tell of yellow-eyes in South Dakota, that’s why we’re here for Ash.”

But she stepped back from him again, shaking her head. He suppressed a grunt of frustration, cursing himself internally for his weakness. She moved out from behind the bar, and he swivelled on his stool to follow her movement with his eyes. With her back to him, pressing buttons on the jukebox, she said: “Well, I guess you’ve got a bit of time to kill while Mom and Sam track down Ash – I think he went to rip off some computer lab in order to boost the signal on his demon-tracking program.”

Her tone was too casual. She was leaning over the buttons, he skirt riding dangerously high on her thighs. Then “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac started to come through the speakers of the juke. Violent apprehension rose up in Dean again. She was doing this on _purpose._ Despite Dean’s careful rejection of Jo the first time they had met, he hadn’t managed to discourage her. Suddenly he suspected that the dress was deliberate: she was _trying_ to seduce him. He had to stop her. He had to warn Jo that she was on dangerous ground. 

She turned back toward him, her expression consternated. She attempted to brush past him, but he reached out and grabbed a fistful of her skirt. She immediately halted; he had accidentally brushed his fingers across her pelvis. He watched the desire tremble through her body. His vision clouded briefly as his pupils went wide with desire and his cock strained against his jeans. He struggled to speak, teetering on the edge of a very dangerous cliff. “Jo, what’s with the dress?” he growled.

Jo reached down and tried to make him release her skirt, but he couldn’t let her go that easily. He caught her hand in his grip, pulling her in toward him. She stumbled into his knees; he could feel the heat radiating off her skin. She made a small protest, sighing out his name like a prayer, but he cut her off. Drawing on his last ounce of willpower, trying desperately to keep himself from seizing her hips to pull her body flush against his, he growled: “Why are you wearing the dress, Jo?” 

He held her like a frightened deer in his gaze, her eyes hooded with desire for him. He could tell she teetered on the same precipice as him, and despite his fervent desire to stop this before it went too far, his hands pulled her in a little further, and her fingers accidentally brushed along the seam of his jeans. Dean stiffened, his heart pounding as cock jumped against their joined hands. It was as though time was frozen for a long moment while Dean desperately hoped that Jo had both felt it and had not noticed. Then, miraculously, Jo pulled away. 

“It’s laundry day,” she said, lightly, walking away from the pull of his gaze.

Dean didn’t know how to react. Suddenly, Jo was acting as though nothing more had happened than a quick handshake. She sashayed away from him and back around the bar. She caught his incredulous look and said: “No, really! It’s hot, and I didn’t have anything else to wear in this weather. Besides, it’s great for the breeze.” Then, defying all reason, Jo lifted her arms and did a few twirls behind the bar. Dean went utterly non-verbal as her skirt caught the air currents, and he was given several substantial glimpses of a criminally sexy pair of black and red lace panties. He shuddered, lust running through his veins like poison, unable to stop his body from responding to hers. At the same time, he was pissed. He was just trying to protect her, and she was willingly, knowingly skipping into the path of danger. 

She stopped spinning, gasping and smiling, the colour high in her cheeks. He simultaneously wanted to leap across the bar and press her body into the bottles of liquor, ripping her dress down the middle to discover if her bra matched those panties while also wanting to peel away in the Impala, driving as if the very Hounds of Hell were after him. She leaned forward on the bar, crossing her arms under her breasts to draw his attention to them. “Why? Don’t you like it?”

Something in him snapped. “No,” said Dean, flatly.

“Why not?” she asked, and pushed away from the bar, clearly offended by his stark statement. Quickly, before she could pull away further, he reached out and slid his hand around the back of her neck. _Fine,_ he thought. _I didn’t want to do this, Jo, but the only way to make you see me for what I really am is to hurt you._ Still, he couldn’t help skimming his thumb over her cheekbone, watching the goose bumps erupt across her skin and her lips part with arousal as he said goodbye the only way he knew would get through to her. “I don’t like it, because it makes you look like _monster bait,_ Jo,” he said through clenched teeth.

He reaction was immediate, and shocking. She wrenched her face from his grip, already screaming: “You know what, Dean Winchester? Fuck you, and fuck the horse you rode in on!” Tears sprang into her eyes, but she continued ruthlessly: “You know well and good that I can handle myself out there against ANY kind of Hell Spawn! WHETHER OR NOT I’M WEARING A SHITTY SUNDRESS!” 

She reached over the bar and viciously shoved him, causing him to overbalance and topple off the barstool. He was left in a heap on the floor of the bar to watch her walk out of his life forever.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean slowly picked himself up off the floor, stunned at Jo’s vehement reaction to his words. He had known that what he said would anger her, but he hadn’t expected her to be so _wounded._ Her face had been twisted with pain; Dean didn’t think he would ever forget that look. He placed his hand on the dusty padded seat of the bar stool, and levered himself to standing. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, and received a pleasant jolt of surprise when he realised that Jo might have given him some serious bruises. _That’s my girl,_ he thought, smirking. Then the smirk slid from his face faster than an egg off a Teflon pan. She wasn’t his girl. And she was never going to be. 

He heard his brother’s heavy tread from the other room, and cleared his throat. Sam’s massive, lumbering form appeared in the doorway, and he paused to take in the scene before him. Dean stood awkwardly, still rubbing the spot on his clavicle where Jo had shoved him. “Um… Did I miss something important?” Sam ventured.

Dean screwed on his best innocent face, lying feebly: “No, no. Absolutely nothing.”

Sam, as always, looked completely unconvinced. He crossed his arms over his chest, doing that annoying head jerk he always did when he knew Dean was lying to him. “Really. Because Ellen and I heard shouting. Have you been hassling Jo? You know, she already gets hit on enough. She works in a bar for chrissakes.”

Dean thought fast, straightening up and regarding his brother levelly. “No, no, nothing like that. C’mon, what do you take me for, an idiot? Ellen would kill me. Look, I just told Jo I didn’t think she had what it takes to be a hunter. She got pissed and stormed off.”

A fleeting look of surprise crossed over Sam’s face. “Okay, really?” Sam scoffed. “Jo and Ellen wouldn’t speak to us for months after Ellen spilled the beans about our dad and Jo’s dad, and now you want to risk antagonizing them further? Besides, that’s not what you said after Philadelphia.”

Dean shook his head. “No, you’ve got it all wrong, Sammy. I only said that to make sure that Jo stays home with Ellen. Even if Jo’s pissed at me, it’s worth it if she stays where Ellen wants her, right?”

“I suppose,” Sam sighed. “Look, Ellen is actually back to being friendly and curious about our work, and she said she wants to go with me to see Ash – that she wants to see that program he’s rigged. She even offered to drive. But frankly, she’s not too keen about leaving you here alone with Jo. I promised her you won’t mess around with her, but you gotta promise me, okay?”

Dean flashed his thousand-watt smile, saying: “Scout’s honour.”

Sam glared at him. Dean dropped the smile. “Seriously, Sammy. Do you think Jo’s even gonna talk to me after what I said?”

Sam threw up his hands. “Fine,” he said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. We won’t be back for a while – I gather Ash is a couple of hours away.”

Dean warily watched his brother turn around and leave out the back. He waited until he heard the tires of Ellen’s truck crunch away across the gravel before he felt he could move. His mind racing, Dean tried to decide what to do. Unwittingly, Sam’s notions that Dean might try something with Jo had set him aflame. He closed his eyes, willing himself to be strong, but the act only served to bring images of Jo twirling behind the bar, standing in the doorway looking fragile and vulnerable, bending over the jukebox, to the forefront of his brain. Jo was like a particularly insidious drug: just when he thought he had purged her from his system, the cravings came back even stronger than before.

Dean would have to leave. He couldn’t stay here at the bar. Alone. With Jo.

Decision made, relief poured through his body like a cool drink of water. Casting a last sweeping glance over the bar, sure he would never see it again, Dean pulled his keys from the pocket of his jeans and swung out through the screen door. The scorching, shimmering sun was just beginning to set; the day was finally starting to cool down. The sky was tinged with pink and orange, casting a warm glow over the vehicle that had always represented a kind of salvation to Dean. He allowed himself a small smile as he raked his gaze over the Impala. Then he stopped in his tracks. There was an impressive glob of spittle sprayed across the windscreen. A slow burn of rage bubbling within him, Dean realized that there was also a dent in her fender.

Oh, Jo was going to pay for that. Nobody hurt Baby and got away with it.

Staring around the dusty yard of the Roadhouse, Dean realised that there were sounds coming from a small outbuilding. It sounded like machinery. Muscles rigid with ire, Dean strode toward the building, unreasonably certain that Jo would be in there. He skidded to a halt before the door, stirring up gravel dust as he raised his fist to slam on the door. Then he heard something from inside that made him pause, his arm poised to strike. It had sounded something like a breathy moan.

Tense and alert, Dean slowly lowered his fist. Like the siding on the rest of the small shed, the door was just a hinged piece of corrugated metal. It was inexpertly cut, and there were sizeable gaps around the frame. Silently, Dean leaned in, feeling thankful that the sun was behind the building, so his shadow would not cast through the crack in the door, alerting whoever, or whatever, was inside to his presence. He pressed his eye to the crack, and was stunned by what he saw.

Inside the little shed, Jo sat perched atop the laundry machines, masturbating wantonly. 

Feeling suddenly dizzy, Dean leaned down, placing his hands carefully on either side of the door to support himself. Breathing shallowly, he tried to process what he’d just seen. Jo was inside. She was dishevelled, and gasping. And she was masturbating. Once again, Dean could feel himself at the edge of the cliff, teetering and tantalizingly close to giving in to insanity. He didn’t think he had ever seen anything more erotic in his entire life. In all the porn he’d watched, all the strip clubs he’d been to, all the women he’d fucked, he didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so titillating as Jo pleasuring herself. Cursing his weakness, he dragged his gaze from the dry ground and back to the gap where the light poured through.

Dean had an unimpeded view of Jo in all her lusty glory. The orange glow from the setting sun poured in through a small, dirty window above Jo’s head, kissing her flushed flesh with gold. Dust motes danced in the air and her blonde curls shivered with every move she made. She was leaning back against the wall underneath a small shelf, one leg dangling over the edge of the dryer, the other spread wide, propped up on the adjacent washer. She had hiked the skirt of her dress up above her hips, and her fingers were stroking over the outside of her terminally sexy underwear. Dean’s throat went dry as he caught another breathy gasp, barely audible over the laundry machines, but growing louder by the second. His palms were slick against the blistering metal of the shack, his heart pounding as he watched Jo slide the straps of her dress down over her shoulders, revealing the black and red bra that did indeed match her panties. Using her left hand to pinch her hardened nipples through the fabric of her bra, Jo slid the fingers of her right hand inside her panties. She gave an audible gasp as her fingers teased her sex, and Dean felt his knees go weak. His jeans were growing uncomfortably tight. 

Dean closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, _willing_ himself to turn around and leave, but he felt like his feet were encased in cement. Suddenly, he heard the water run briefly from inside, and tensed, fearing Jo was done and he would have to make himself scarce, despite his sudden inability to move. However, his eyes snapped open when he heard an exclamation – a husky “Oh!” – from inside. 

The hunter opened his eyes just in time to see Jo slide the neck of a beer bottle, the beer bottle he had just been drinking from, inside her cunt. Blood roared in Dean’s ears; his heart was pounding, and he found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the intimate act before him. Deep within him, he felt an aching need to believe that Jo was fantasizing about him. Filled to the brim with shame and longing, Dean removed his right hand from the wall of the shed and palmed at the seam of his jeans, trying to ease the throbbing desire there. 

Dean could hear Jo’s moans distinctly now, and he watched the colour rise across her chest and cheekbones as she neared completion. Dean continued to watch, shuddering with unspent desire and humiliation. In what world would Jo ever want him for more than a quick fuck? She could have any man she wanted, why would she care about broken, damaged Dean? He would never, ever admit how desperately he wanted Jo to be thinking about him while she pleasured herself – he feared his shameful weakness would be the literal death of her if he couldn’t overcome his desire.

With a monumental effort, Dean pulled his hands away from his body, tightening them into fists at his sides as he ground his forehead painfully into the metal siding of the shack. Summoning his last ounce of strength as Jo’s cries began to peak, he wrenched himself away from the wall of the outbuilding and turned away. Yet then, he heard a sound that pierced his heart more deeply than any blade could cut.   
“Dean!” Jo cried out as she came. 

It was like a plaintive call directly to his soul. He stopped in his tracks. That one sound made all of his dreams and nightmares come true at once. Jo did want him, maybe for keeps. As much as he wanted the same thing, wanted it, wanted her desperately, a huge part of him was fighting back, terrified of what might happen if he allowed himself some happiness with Jo.

Suddenly all noise from the laundry room ceased, and like a frightened rabbit, Dean quickly and quietly made a beeline for the back of the shed, unable to face Jo after what he had witnessed. Dean pressed himself against the heated siding at the back of the building, praying that Jo hadn’t heard his hasty exit. He listened as the water ran briefly, and Jo let out a low chuckle. The door gave a hollow _clang_ as Jo pushed it open, and he peeked around the corner of the building to watch her head up the stairs to the living area behind and above the bar, clean laundry in hand and a certain satisfied jauntiness to her gait.

Dean let out a long breath and tugged at his jeans, trying to relieve the pressure there, before he skirted back around to the front of the laundry room and slid silently inside. He closed the door behind him, careful not to let it make any noise. He couldn’t have told himself exactly what he was doing in the dim room, or what exactly he was looking for, but the small, stuffy little space smelled of a heady mixture of clean laundry and sex – two things he loved – and for a moment, he simply stood there, taking it all in. 

Trancelike, Dean reached out and ran his palms over the dryer, where it was still warm from Jo’s body. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the beer bottle glinting innocently in the washbasin; completely innocuous despite the intimate act it had just been utilized for. Before he could stop himself, he had grasped the bottle, and was lifting it to his lips, hands trembling. His mouth was watering, his heart pounding, and sweat was beading on his forehead as he inched the mouth of the bottle ever closer, unable to control the urge to discover if it still tasted of Jo. Just as the warm brown glass was about to touch his lips, he forced his hand to a shuddering stop. With a massive effort of will, he threw the bottle back in to the washbasin, where it shattered, the shards dully reflecting the last light of the setting sun. Breathing hard, Dean leaned against the basin, trying to gather himself.

Jo had made her choice. It was clear now to Dean that she was willing to take the risk of being with him. But Dean still had a choice, too. And he couldn’t let Jo waste herself with him. A strange sort of calm settled over Dean as he made his decision. Now that he knew exactly where he stood with Jo, it almost felt easier to protect her. 

All he had to do was break her heart.

Resolute, Dean pushed out of the laundry shed and slowly walked back toward the Roadhouse, his steps the measured, weary pace of a man condemned.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a doozy, my friends. It is basically huge, but it’s worth it, I promise!! Please don’t forget to read the little coda at the end.
> 
> For this final chapter, as it is the climax of the piece (ha!) I decided I wanted a rather dramatic tonal shift to occur. So while the first several parts were written in past tense and third-person singular, for the purpose of the scene I felt it would be more emotionally impactful to write in present tense and third-person subjective point of view. Hooray for narrative and grammatical devices! Hopefully, this will enhance rather than interrupt your enjoyment of the story.

Dean tries to keep his mind on the sound of his boots scuffing against the worn wood of the steps that lead up to the living area above the Roadhouse. His thoughts recoil from the task he has set himself, and he feels physically ill. Despite the lingering heat of the day, cold sweat has broken out across his back and forehead. How is this somehow worse than every unspeakable thing he has ever faced? 

He feels as though he is barely moving; yet he reaches the top of the steps faster than he can believe. Conflicted, he lingers at the screen door, his fingers dancing over the handle. Can he really do this to Jo? It would be so much easier to just leave, to kick off the patina of dust this place has imprinted upon his soul and abandon her to curl into his familiar world of self-loathing, but he knows now that his hurts will only continue to draw her to him. His hand lands on the latch, suddenly decisive, and he quietly pushes his way in.

He finds himself in a dim hallway, old but well kept, with framed pictures on the wall. Dean can hear her within, her slightly husky whiskey-voice singing something wordless and mildly off-key. He starts forward, but his attention is arrested by a slight gleam off a dusty photo, as the door swings shut behind him. It is a photo of Jo in middle school, looking impossibly tough and determined in an itchy-looking Sunday dress and with braces on her teeth. It seems she shone fierce and bright even then, and he can practically feel Ellen’s pride in her daughter leaking out of the image, despite the fact that her only presence is from behind the camera. 

_Her father would have already been dead at his point in her life._ The thought passes through him like ice water, extinguishing the warm feeling that had been growing in his chest in response to the picture. Her father was a hunter, too. Dean would inevitably bring just as much tragedy into her life, if not more, if he remains involved with her. With a determined sigh, he rips his gaze from the picture and follows the sound of Jo’s voice. Terrified now at the thought of what he has to do, Dean begins to move faster, keen to get it over with.

Light and the sound of Jo’s voice is escaping around the frame of the door at the end of the hall, and Dean, heart pounding, barrels through it before stopping in his tracks. 

Jo looks up in shock from where she is folding clothes across the foot of her bed. Dean stares at her like a wounded animal – ready to bite or bolt. Goosebumps skate across her skin. The sweat-stained sundress had had to go the moment she reached her bedroom. Now she is standing before him in a state of sublime undress; she is in her lingerie and nothing else. The last light from the setting sun kisses her hair and it has turned from corn silk to spun gold. She can feel his gaze like a caress. “Dean?” she ventures, her mouth dry.

He practically flinches when she says his name. He appears skittish, completely thrown by her appearance. She can feel the uncertainty radiating from his skin, but she also notes how dark his eyes have become, and how his tongue darts out to moisten his lips. 

He feels agitated and strange, like he’s stumbled into one of his darkest dreams. He feels like he can see nothing but skin – acres of skin, miles of skin, milk-white and rose-tinted. She isn’t just pretty; her beauty is achingly real. She has a smudge of dirt on her left collarbone, and a smallish scar on her stomach – she must have had her appendix removed at some point. Her nails are chewed to the quick and her knuckles are raw from cleaning the bar and breaking up fights. And yet, Dean thinks she is the most stunning woman he has ever seen.

Jo gingerly puts down the towel she had been folding and straightens her back in an attempt at bravery. There is no teasing, no flirting, now. They both feel the precipice, the abyss over which they’re suspended by the tips of their fingers. Now it is only a matter of whose grip will slip first. Small, involuntary shudders run through Jo as she feels her face begin to heat under his scrutiny. She lets out a rush of breath she didn’t know she’d been holding in and sways slightly on her feet, dizzy from lack of air. Before he’s able to stop himself, Dean makes a motion as if to reach out and steady her, but at the last second, does not take a step. He remains frozen to the spot. 

Her eyes are traveling feverishly over his body, glazed and bright. Dean’s lips part in an echo of hers. She’s struck again, as she is each time she looks at him, by just how _gorgeous_ he is. Haltingly, she takes a step toward him, moving carefully to prevent him from shying away.

He shuts his eyes as if in pain. It is as though his skin is alive, nerve endings tingling and painfully sensitive to the rapidly cooling air, the light pad of Jo’s footfalls, and worst of all, the heat from her body, tantalizingly close. His eyes snap open, and she’s _right there._ Dean wants to flinch away, but is profoundly unable to. 

Jo’s throat bobs as she swallows audibly. Despite the fact that every cell in her body is telling her to _just touch him already,_ she won’t. This has to be his decision. She’s already made her choice. She made it this afternoon in the darkened bar, she made it in the apartment in Philadelphia, God help her, she made it when he grabbed her shotgun and she clocked him in order to get it back. Now it’s his turn. She can’t, she won’t force his hand. This is too important.

Taking a deep breath, she forces her body to relax. Dean can almost feel the fluid movement of the muscles beneath her skin, and he trembles, involuntarily. She looks up at him, and he finds himself unable to look away. Softly, Jo begins to speak. “Dean… It’s okay. I… You can leave. I – I understand. I know – I know you don’t want what I want. Maybe its better…” 

He can’t. She’s so good. Too good for him. 

Jo’s breath catches in her throat, and she can’t go on. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears. _Damn it._ Couldn’t she just hold it together for him for a few more minutes? She chokes back a threatening sob and draws in a deep well of air through her nose. When she speaks again, her voice barely shakes. “I’m sorry, Dean. I can’t help it. I’m – I’m out of my mind with wanting you.”

Heat washes over Dean in a wave. She’s so _brave._ She’s finally said what he couldn’t admit. When Jo speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper. “It’s okay, Dean. I’ll wait… I’ll wait for you forever.”

The dam breaks.

They let go.

His arms around her are so gentle, more gentle than she would have thought possible. Dean is holding her like he’s afraid she might shatter in his embrace, and he’s half right. She wants to fly apart. It feels so good. She never would have believed it could feel this good to be held by him; it feels like coming home. 

Dean is shaking against her. The rough skin of his palms slide across her figure and she’s so soft and warm underneath his hands, she is so unbelievably perfect. Her body feels so _right_ pressed tenderly against his. 

For what feels like several centuries, he can’t even bring himself to move. But Jo’s body is pushing more urgently against his, and suddenly he feels like she’s seeping into his pores and he _has to have her._

It’s like he wants to consume her, and Dean begins to run his lips lightly over every plane of her body he can reach. He isn’t even kissing her, not really. His lips are just barely touching her, here and there. 

Needy sounds escape Jo’s mouth – she is already so aroused. His lips feel incredible: like a warm breeze ghosting over her flesh. She is clutching at him – grasping – pulling his hair and trying to yank off his shirt with fingers tingling from pleasure. Dean traces his lips down her neck, across her collarbones and into the sweet spot between her breasts. It is sublime torture. Jo wants, no, _needs_ more contact, but Dean is not giving her an inch. “Dean!” her voice is husky with desire, “Dean, please!”

Dean’s hands join his lips in their exploration, but other than that, he makes no effort to speed things up. He is trying to memorize her body. Now that he is finally touching her, now that he has her in his arms after wanting her for so long, he _can’t_ rush it. Hot shame and regret still flood his body, but he no longer has the willpower to deny her. He will just have to protect her to the last. 

He wants to pull back and say something, to try and articulate this to her, but he fears she wouldn’t believe it. Jo has no illusions about Dean and other women. If he were to say everything he wanted to say to her – if he were to warn her of the danger, utter sweet apologies for his flaws, praise her beauty and pour forth oaths that he would still be there in the morning, that he would be there _forever_ – would she really believe him?

So, he stays silent, and lets his body do the talking; this is how he will worship her, communicate his devotion. She is trying to pull his head up so she can finally kiss him. Her grip in his hair is enormous, painful. Sweetly, inexorably, he begins to push her back toward her bed, and as the back of her calves brush against the mattress, she finally succeeds in bringing his mouth up to hers. 

She gasps into his mouth. She’s been kissed before, of course she has, but it’s never felt like this. She can feel how Dean’s heart is pounding; his tongue is meeting hers and it is hot and wet and so, so sweet. 

His brain shudders to a stop, and he is suddenly completely lost in her, lost in the sensation of her mouth against his. Jo is aggressive, almost angry, and Dean begins to taste blood from where her teeth have pierced his lips. She abruptly curls her leg around his ass, pulling his hips flush to her center. The heat pulsing from her is _incredible:_ he can feel it through his jeans. He rips his lips from hers, gasping. Her eyes gazing into his are heavy-lidded and dark with lust. His blood is smeared across her mouth and she is savagely beautiful. 

She takes his momentary pause as an opportunity to roll her hips against him, insinuating her body into him. 

Dean groans, suddenly dizzy as the blood leaves his brain and pools further south. “Jesus, Jo,” he growls, “You’re making me crazy.”

“Good,” she purrs in response. “You need to let go, Dean. I’m not gonna break.”

A lump rises in Dean’s throat, and he stops her words with a kiss, this one tender and sweet. He raises a knee to the bed behind her and dips her gently down to lie atop the sheets. Her hair spreads out around her head in a tangled halo, and he pauses just to look at her, to take in the sight of her beneath him, his body pressed against hers. 

She can feel his hesitation. She wraps her legs around him insistently, tugging up his shirt to run her nails over his abs – she doesn’t want to give him the chance to change his mind. Jo simply couldn’t accept it if she got this close to Dean after all this time, and then lost him. Perhaps this doesn’t carry the same emotional weight for him as it does for her, but maybe if she can make him lose himself in her body, she can pretend, just for tonight, that he feels the same way about her as she does about him. 

But Dean is moving again, and she lets out a small noise of relief. The hand that is still wrapped behind her back flicks decisively, and the lacy bra is suddenly undone. Achingly slowly, Dean draws the garment off Jo’s body, revealing her breasts millimeter by millimeter. Jo flushes as she hears Dean’s sharp, indrawn breath at the sight of so much skin. She feels so _hot_ under him, and she briefly squirms against him before his mouth is on her, shocking and painfully stimulating. _FUCK_ his mouth is wicked. She’s never felt such a combination of lips/teeth/tongue, and it is turning her on as much as any oral sex ever has. Passion pools between her legs as she imagines what that mouth might do to her south of the border. It is only when Dean chuckles lightly against her that she realizes she cursing a blue streak.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters, and Jo freezes for a moment. _Did he just say what I think he said? Did he mean…?_ But his mouth is back to work and the thought is lost.

Dean is fascinated with the taste of her skin. It is salty and tangy, like lemons. He could swear she tastes precisely of tequila shots – exactly as heady and intoxicating. He works his mouth lower, kissing the hot crease below her breasts before running his tongue down to her belly button, where he briefly dips it in. Jo gives a shocked and breathy giggle in response, her lean abdominals tightening up under his tongue. He kisses and sucks across her hip bones, down the insides of her thighs, and even plants one light kiss right over top of her panties, but he comes no closer to where she really wants him to be. Jo is whining and writhing beneath him, tugging at his short sandy hair, trying to get his mouth where she wants it. He stops moving completely, and she lets out a huff of frustration. 

She needs him to stay with her. He may just be teasing, but she’s not willing to bet on it. “Dean,” she growls, propping herself up on one elbow so she can look him in the eye (trying not to be distracted by how goddamn good he looks between her legs), “Just get on with it and _fuck_ me already!”

And without warning, a thick, calloused finger is suddenly inside her and she throws her head back with a cry. She’s so slick, it has slid in easily, and Dean holds still inside her, hesitant, waiting for permission to continue. “Okay?” he ventures, watching her chest rise and fall in great gasps.

“Oh, fuck yes, just move already!” she manages, her voice strangled.

Dean does, pulling his body carefully from between her legs and moving to kneel down beside the bed as he crooks his finger inside her, seeking the perfect angle. He hasn’t even bothered to take off her underwear, and the next thing she knows, she feels his hot mouth through the fabric. 

She’s making such beautiful sounds, and he discreetly pulls down the zipper on his jeans to ease the pressure there. That same hand then grasps her hip, pulling her right to the edge of the bed so that he can ease her knees over his shoulders. He pulls her sopping underwear aside with his teeth and probes with his tongue – testing, tasting. He focuses in on her clit, tapping it lightly with the flat of his tongue as he adds a second finger to her tight passage. Jesus, she’s so small everywhere. Jo’s hands are on the back of his head, pressing his face into her wildly thrusting hips. 

She simultaneously wants to escape the onslaught of his mouth and make him work _just a little bit harder_ because the pleasure is almost _too much_ and if she doesn’t come soon she’s going to _fucking scream._ She’s crying out in earnest now, and her muscles are fluttering enticingly around his fingers. Thrusting his two fingers in and out, he seals his lips around her clit and _sucks._ Jo goes utterly silent, back arching in a taught bow as she _comes_ harder than she’s ever come before.

She could swear she blacks out for a moment, but Dean is drawing it out, sending quakes and aftershocks of pleasure through her body again and again and again. Her moans are utterly _ragged_ as she unexpectedly comes a second time: smaller, yet no less earth shattering than the first. Finally, she manages to choke out: “Stop, Dean, please… Too much…” 

Dean immediately stops moving, but draws away slowly, trying not to shock her system. Her body is shuddering exhaustedly, like she’s just run a marathon. He stretches out beside her on the bed and gathers her to him, holding her curled gently against his chest. His body is practically screaming at him for release, but nothing in the world could make him hurry her right now. 

Jo is trying to get her breathing under control, her heart hammering against her ribs. She feels boneless and heavy in Dean’s arms – content and dangerously close to dropping off into a wearied sleep. She can feel his distance again, he’s pulling away and she can’t have that, but she literally cannot feel her hands or feet – they’ve gone completely numb thanks to the overstimulation in the pleasure centre of her brain. “Holy shit… Holy shit, _holy shit!”_ she’s muttering, over and over again.

Dean’s answering chuckle vibrates through her entire body, and she’s surprised to find a countering heat flaring up again between her legs. Jesus. Is she ready to go again already? She presses her body closer in to his, and finds that she is indeed aroused again, or perhaps still aroused – her naked nipples peak and pebble as they brush against the fabric of his shirt. A small moan escapes from her mouth, and Dean props himself up on his elbow to look at her in response. “You okay, sweetheart? Jo, honey, are you…?” 

Dean’s words die in his throat as he sees her pupils dilate and she thrusts her hips lazily against him, the smell of her arousal like the scent of good liquor, heavy in the air. A huge shudder rolls through his body. _Fuck._ She’s needy, and hot, and so, so ready for him. 

Numb hands be damned, Jo pushes herself up and straddles Dean decisively. He half sits up, his abs tightening reflexively as she rests her hips flush on his. She uses the movement to his advantage and strips his shirt off decisively. He groans deep in the back of his throat at the sensation. She can feel his searing hardness beneath her, and she closes her eyes in pleasure. Dean is frozen underneath her when she opens them again: he is devouring her with his eyes. Momentarily, it makes her feel a little self-conscious. His scrutiny is so naked with want; surely no one has ever wanted her with such fervour. 

And he does. He is torn between his need to fuck her with all the fury of his years of pent-up desire for her, and to draw this out for as long as possible, spinning out her pleasure into golden threads.

For, now, he lets Jo take the lead, trusting her worn-out body to set a slower pace. She does – at the moment she seems content to draw her nails lightly up and down his chest, examining the hard planes of his body. She treats him with similar scrutiny as he has treated her. This is first time she’s ever had the chance to really admire his body, and she isn’t going to waste it. He has scars criss-crossing his flesh, marring the perfection there, but she takes the time to trace each one, knowing that each is evidence of a battle won, a life saved. For this reason, they are precious. 

Dean’s skin is heating up beneath her careful touches, and he slides his hands up her thighs to grip her hips. He needs something to ground him, something to hold onto, and her slight body atop his seems hold him down like a mooring line. The movement of her hands shudder to a stop as he pulls her into him, rolling his hips in a slow, lewd arc underneath her. _“Fuuuuuuuuuck…_ Dean…” she whispers.

Abruptly, everything speeds up, and she’s yanking his unbuttoned pants and boxers down, rising up off his hips to get the fabric out of the way _now._ Then he’s more exposed than she is, and he’s sitting up to hook his fingers through her thoroughly soaked, thoroughly ruined panties, and slide them off. Divested of her undergarments, she pulls away, and Dean is momentarily nonplussed, until he sees her digging through his pockets for a silver foil condom packet. The tiny ripping sound as she opens it is like the starting shot, and now they are in a race to the finish. Jo kneels before him, and he lets out an astonished groan when she uses her searing, fiery mouth to slide the condom down over the length of him. 

Jo pulls back, smirking. He gently threads his fingers through the waves of her hair, and his voice shakes slightly as he says: “I don’t think I’ll last if you do any more than that, Jo. Will you let me…?”

She laughs at this, her voice slightly husky. “Finally!” she says, laughing through her words, “Yes. Please. I want you, Dean. I kind of thought that was obvious.”

Dean needs no further prompting. He pulls Jo up onto the bed and slides over her, his lips meeting hers with breathtaking intensity. She parts her legs beneath him and digs her nails into the flesh of his ass, dragging him closer. When he finally slips inside, it is _agonizingly_ measured and slow. A deep gasp wells up from within her, but it is lost to Dean’s mouth. She feels sluggish with pleasure as he trails his lips down to her throat, and cries out when he bites down sharply. 

Jo’s cry cuts him to the quick and he feels an overwhelming sense of possessiveness – he never wants another man to make her react this way. A single word is roaring through his head, and that word is _MINE._ He is alternating between sucking and biting that same spot on her neck, worrying it with his mouth, and she will be bruised tomorrow – marked. 

He works his hands under her hips to lift them and sinks deeper within her with a startlingly primal growl. A small cry escapes her throat as he hits a certain spot deep inside, and then she’s moving against him feverishly, wanting to hit that spot again and again and again. His heart stutters as she clings to him, her eyes open and _trusting_ as they take pleasure in each other. 

She is somehow clasping her inner muscles around him in suggestive waves, and Dean is on the brink. “Dean,” she’s moaning, “Please… Harder… So close!” 

Her words and hands urge him on, and he presses more firmly into her. His breathing is harsh against her ear and the intensity of her arousal suddenly skyrockets as he whispers: “You’re _mine,_ Jo.”

“God – Dean!” she cries, teetering over the precipice. She stutters to completion, and Dean is lost in the sensation of her body. For one long moment that stretches out like the horizon, all he can feel, smell, taste, hear is her. Then she clenches once more around him, and the unstoppable happens. Hips losing their relentless rhythm, he comes, his body trembling and his throat raw with emotion.

Slowly, all movement stills, and all that can be heard are their harsh sighs, breath mingling in the dark. With the setting of the sun, the room has rapidly started to cool off, and the air feels blessed on their spent bodies. Dean is the first to move, and as he pulls away Jo draws into herself, suddenly certain he’ll leave, that she imagined his whispered words. So she’s surprised when she feels his arms come around her again, and he pulls the sheet of the bed up over the two of them. She’s tense in his embrace, unsure whether or not to trust this unexpected intimacy. She can tell he’s also unused to it: he struggles to find a comfortable position against her. With a careful, emotional sigh, she shifts just slightly, and suddenly, they fit. His body is perfectly flush with hers, his lips in her hair. 

Dean relaxes his whole self against Jo, marvelling at how _good_ he feels. He drifts. In the morning, he’ll say all the things he couldn’t say tonight.

Jo lies awake for much longer.

 

~~

 

Searing light glanced through the curtains of Jo’s room and directly into Dean’s eyes. With a groan, he rolled over, searching the sheets blindly with his hand for Jo’s body. But there was nothing. The sheets were cool. He cracked one eye open. She wasn’t there. The air was still. There were no sounds of the shower or breakfast being made or anything. “Jo?” Dean ventured. 

There was no response. Cautiously he sat up, nerves now on high alert for anything amiss. “Jo?” he called again, louder this time. 

Nothing.

Dean looked around him for some clue, and his eyes alighted on a torn sheet of notebook paper on Jo’s bedside table. Heart in his throat, he reached for it.

_Dean,_

_Thank you for last night._

_I can tell you’re trying. Some part of you thinks you’ve got to treat me better than all the other girls. But I know that you don’t really feel it. All night I could feel you trying to draw away from me, and I pushed you into being with me, and for that I’m sorry._

_Last night meant so much to me – probably more than you could even guess. And I can’t face you knowing that it didn’t mean the same to you. I’ll be fine after a bit, but I need to be away for a while. I won’t come back to the Roadhouse until I know that you and Sam are gone._

_Goodbye, Dean._

_-Jo_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope the coda helps tie it in a little bit more with the actual events of the series. If this occurred some time before Abandon All Hope, then I think it explains a lot of the subtext in that kiss and their goodbye. 
> 
> At any rate, I hope you all enjoyed it. Reviews are welcome <3

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy, formatting is not fun. Turns out, I use italics waaaay too often.


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